That night, Adaeze returned to her small apartment in Surulere. She kicked off her heels and sank onto the couch, exhaustion melting into the cushions. The hum of distant generators filled the night air, a familiar soundtrack of Lagos after dark.
Her laptop sat open on the centre table, its screen glowing softly in the dim room. She pressed play on the recorded interview and listened to Izunna's voice fill the space as she typed.
'Nightengale United continue to rise, powered by the relentless drive of Izunna Obieze, a player whose confidence is often mistaken for pride, but whose hunger fuels every shot.'
She paused, reading her line back. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Should I soften it? Should I remove the edge?
She did not. She saved the file, closed her eyes for a moment, and leaned back, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above her as if it were in no hurry to judge her thoughts.
Izunna's face slipped into her mind uninvited: the easy grin, the teasing glint in his eyes, the way he said her name as though it held a secret only he understood. She felt it again, that spark, the one she pretended not to notice.
She shut her laptop gently. 'Focus, Adaeze,' she whispered. 'You came for the story, not the player.'
Outside, a light breeze drifted through the curtains, carrying faint echoes of cheering fans from a nearby viewing centre. Somewhere in the city, Izunna was likely celebrating his win. She pictured him laughing, bright, carefree and magnetic, and for a fleeting second, she wondered what it would feel like to be part of that world.
Sleep tugged at her, soft and insistent, and she let herself give in.